


I was late (but I arrived)

by sarcastic_fina



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Fandom For Rainne, Female Friendship, Gen, Gore, Implied Violence, Murder, Revenge, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_fina/pseuds/sarcastic_fina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as complicated goes, Darcy’s life takes a sharp turn down a road called ‘<i>completely fucked</i>.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	I was late (but I arrived)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rainne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainne/gifts).



> This was my contribution to [Fandom for Rainne](http://fandom4rainne.tumblr.com/about_us/), which I recommend checking out! It was completed as a one off, so I have no current plans to continue it. Happy reading!
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> _The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended._  
> 

Darcy wakes up on the floor, confused, with a headache throbbing away behind her temples so acutely that her vision swims. Closing her eyes, she raises a hand to her head and finds her hair is damp and clumpy. _What the fuck?_ After blinking past the throbbing pain of her headache, she finds herself staring at a blinking light on the ceiling. Turning her head to the left, she finds her neck is like a limp spaghetti noodle. It hurts to move and her strength is completely sapped. She can see Jane’s make-shift lab in the living room, her desk is overturned, a filing cabinet is tipped against one of the machines, paper is scattered everywhere, glass litters every surface, and— _is that blood?—_ covers the floor.

Darcy blinks, and then blinks again, her brow furrowed.

She tries to think back to the last thing she remembers, but her memory is more than a little spotty. She and Jane were working; when weren’t they? There was yet another science breakthrough on the horizon. As soon as Jane hopped over one science hurdle, she found another, and Darcy more or less felt like she was just along for the ride. Don’t get her wrong, she loves her job. It’s hectic and exhausting and not what she planned to do with her life, but when are aliens ever _really_ in the life plan? Well, unless you’re a Mulder anyway. Point being, she wasn’t expecting it, but she’s happy with her life. She is _not_ happy with the state of the lab, however, or how much her head is hurting.

Was there an explosion? Jane’s machines were always on the fritz and had blown up a time or two. Or maybe it was an attack? Alien or otherwise.

She lays a hand on the floor and starts sitting up, but putting pressure on her arms is a no go. There’s glass under her and something _wet_. She doesn’t want to look. Darcy wouldn’t call herself squeamish around blood, not by a long shot, but where there’s blood, there’s a story, and not one she wants to be told. There’s no avoiding it though, not really. _Something_ happened, and it’s something she’s going to have to face.

Brushing the glass out from under her hand, she pushes herself until she’s sitting upright. There’s an impulse to turn to the right, to see what she’s avoiding, but a pit in her stomach warns her it isn’t going to be good. Instinctively, she wants to call for Jane, but she has an idea of where she is, and a lack of response is only going to drive the point home.

She stares at the floor for a solid minute, at the blood soaking into the carpet, bits of scattered glass, and a knife, just a few inches away. Swallowing tightly, she draws a breath, closes her eyes, and turns her head.

Bile is already crawling up her throat, but she swallows it back, and opens her eyes.

Jane lies in a heap, staring at the ceiling much like Darcy had. Her legs lay at a strange angle and her arms are crossed over her chest, with scrapes and cuts along her hands and forearms like she was trying to defend against the plunging knife. The sleeves of her plaid shirt are torn and blood, waving open along with flags of skin.  

Not just bile, but vomit, climbs her throat and spews from her lips. Her chest heaves as she throws up, scrambling away from the body, hands slipping in puke and blood alike. When she comes to a stop, her back is against a wall, her lungs burn as she hyperventilates and her eyes sting with tears.

There’s no point, she knows this logically, but she stills whispers, “ _Jane?_ ”

Jane doesn’t move. Not so much as a twitch.

“Janey…?”

Darcy swipes an arm across her mouth and pushes herself up and onto her knees. It takes her a little while to move back toward her, eyes scanning her from head to toe. She’s desperate, hoping this is some really shitty prank or a nightmare or something, _anything_ but reality.

But it’s Jane. It’s _her_ Jane. Jane who science-babbles in her sleep. Jane who tries to live off day-old coffee and stale Poptarts. Jane who goes on three-day science benders and laughs at her own nerdy jokes and actually sleeps with the Thor body pillow Darcy bought her as joke. Jane who tried (and failed) to bake Darcy a birthday cake last year and just added extra icing to cover up the taste and burnt parts. Best friend and boss, science dork extraordinaire, _Jane_.

Darcy stops, her knees pressed against Jane’s ribs, and she reaches down slowly, presses her fingers to Jane’s neck, searching for a pulse. There’s nothing, her skin is cold and lifeless. Darcy’s finger presses a little harder, searching for something she knows she won’t find. She lifts her other hand to Jane’s cheek, brushing her knuckles over it, rubbing at a dry stream of blood.

Closing her eyes, she shakes her head. This isn’t right. It’s not _right_. She can’t remember… She doesn’t remember what happened. But this… _Why?_ There are papers spread all over. Was it over her research, her work, _what?_ And why kill her? Jane barely weighs anything. Lock her in a closet, knock her out, but _kill_ her? That’s just unnecessary.

Darcy swallows tightly and gives her head another shake. She has to _think_. Who was it? Why’d they do it? What was the _point?_ The problem is that Jane could have any number of enemies. Other scientists angry that she made a name for herself. HYDRA looking to create a rainbow bridge. Anybody who wanted to send a message to Thor. It left a lot of options, and with her spotty memory, not a lot to go on.

There’s a noise then. A _crunch_. Like glass under a boot.

Darcy turns, whirls around, eyes darting, and wonders for a moment if maybe the killer is still there, still in the apartment somewhere.

She lunges toward the knife, her fingers coiling around the grip as she pushes herself up to her feet, teeth grit and adrenaline pumping steadily.

A shadow moves across the wall and she turns, swiping out wildly.

She’s not sure who or what she’s expecting, but an unaffected red head isn’t it.

A raised eyebrow meets Darcy’s suspicious gaze before the woman turns her attention back to Jane, who she’s kneeling beside, looking her over curiously.

“You’re the Black Widow.” Darcy doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but that’s exactly what it sounds like when she says it.

“And you’re Darcy Lewis, Foster’s intern.” She uncoils herself to stand, and Darcy might be more than a little on edge, but she doesn’t think she’s misreading the _‘Danger, Danger Will Robinson_ ’ warning signs that are wafting off the woman in front of her. “Did you kill her?”

Darcy nearly drops the knife. The question is so off-handed, like she was asking if Darcy knew how to get to the nearest 7-Eleven, that Darcy wants to tear into her, tell her Jane’s death deserves a lot more anger or sadness or _something_. What she says instead is, “ _Screw you_ , lady.”

A faint curl of Widow’s lip answers her. “That’s what I thought.”

Darcy’s fingers flex on the knife. “Did _you?_ ”

“I’m not this… _messy_.” She looks over the room. “And I had no reason to kill Foster.”

Darcy scowls. “Neither did I.”

Widow’s head tips as she looks Darcy over thoughtfully. “Okay.”

“Okay…?”

“Mmhmm.” She walks forward, eyeing Darcy’s knife passively. “The police are going to be here in a minute. They’re going to break that door down, take one look at you, and come to some very simple conclusions.”

Darcy looks down at Jane, and then at herself, covered in Jane’s blood, and then to the knife, used to kill her. She didn’t have to be a genius to put the pieces together. “I didn’t kill her. I _wouldn’t_ —”

“I know.”

“ _How?_ You don’t even know me!”

Widow walks toward her, unperturbed by how Darcy backs away, keeping the knife forward, aimed at the former assassin. “I’ve seen killers. _You_ …? You’re not a killer. You make a good scapegoat though. Overworked intern that can’t take the pressure and kills her neurotic boss. Not unbelievable.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Darcy snarls, glaring. “She’s just focused. She’s a good person. She just…” She draws a deep, shaky breath, her eyes darting toward Jane as a tear spills down her cheek. “She just wanted to science the hell out of space.”

It takes a split second before Widow dislodges the knife from Darcy’s hand and has her pinned to the wall, a forearm pressed to her throat. She holds the knife loose at her hip though, doesn’t flash it in a threat like she could. Instead, she stares at Darcy, searching her eyes a long, tense moment. And then she releases her, letting her stumble and choke.

“If we’re going to do this, we need to leave.”

“Do _what?_ What the hell is going on!?” Darcy snaps, rubbing at her throat.

Natasha raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “The police are coming up the stairs. Someone called it in, said there was a disturbance in this apartment, heard screaming, thought someone was hurt… They’re going to come in here and arrest you for the murder of your best friend. _Unless_ …”

“Unless?”

“We leave, and we find out who really did it.”

Darcy swallows, and stares at her warily. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because. You didn’t do this. And she didn’t deserve this.” Walking past her then, the Widow makes her way to the window leading to the fire escape. “Coming?”

Darcy hesitates, looking back at Jane. She chews her lip and shifts from one foot to the other. When she looks back at the window, no one is there, but it’s open, letting in a cold breeze and rustling the ugly floral curtains.

( _“Really Jane? Those are the fugliest curtains I’ve ever seen.”_

_“_ _Last I checked you had a degree in political science, not interior design, so zip it. Besides, I kind of like them.”)_

Turning back to Jane, she walks to her, and bends to kneel at her shoulder. She brushes her fingers over her forehead gently. “I’m going to figure this out, okay?” Her throat burns, but she swallows back the swell of emotion. “I promise, Janey.”

There’s a banging knock at the door then. “NYPD, open the door!”

Darcy pulls away, looks at Jane one last time, and then runs toward the window. She dives through and pulls it down and closed. As she moves toward the stairs she can hear as they start ramming the door to force it open. The Black Widow is already on the ground below. Darcy races to catch up, her heart pounding. By the time she reaches the bottom, she’s out of breath, trembling with panic, and standing in a dark alley that stinks of rotting trash.

“Ready?” Widow asks.

The situation hits her, abruptly. “Honestly? _No_. I have no idea what I’m doing. My best friend is dead. I can’t remember _anything._ I’m pretty sure I puked on myself. I’m _covered_ in blood. And I can’t remember anything about you but your Avengers handle and that you’re an ex-Russian assassin turned American spy for SHIELD who helped take out the HYDRA moles.” Darcy tosses her hands up. “The police are going to think I killed Jane. I have no training in this kind of thing. I’m terrified out of my _fucking_ mind. And all I really want to do is curl up in a ball and cry about how stupidly unfair all of this is. So _no_ , I’m not ready.”

Widow peers at her a moment, and then nods. “Call me Natasha. And the rest we’ll figure out on the way.” She tips her head then. “Now come on. If we stay here any longer, you’re going to end up in a cell.”

“Where are we going?” Darcy asks as she follows Natasha deeper into the alley.

The dark clothing she’s wearing helps her blend into the darkness, while her hair acts as something Darcy can focus on.

“Whoever killed Foster made it look like you did it. If you’re not there to take the blame, they’ll have to clean things up another way. Possibly by taking you out of the picture and making it look like a suicide. Again, framing you as Foster’s killer.”

“You’re just a giant ball of sunshine, huh?”

“I’m pragmatic.” Natasha turns to her then, just as they reach the end of the alley; a street lamp offers enough for them to make each other out. “If this is going to work, you’ll need to trust me. I can help you find out who did this to Foster and clear your name, but we need to work together. You have information I need, even if you don’t think you do, and you knew her better than anyone. You can answer questions nobody else can.”

“I can’t remember what happened or who did it.”

“Not right now, but you will.” Natasha stares at her. “You have options here. You can run and hide, I won’t stop you. But you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. _Or_ you can stay and get answers… Staying isn’t safe. We don’t know who the killer is or what kind of resources they have. The police are going to paint you like a villain to the public and everyone, maybe even Thor, is going to believe you did this until we can prove different. But if you stick with me, I promise you… We’ll figure this out.”

Darcy opens her mouth to say she’ll stay, but her voice stalls for a moment, and a terrifying thought occurs to her. “What if… What if I _did_ do it? What if I can’t remember it because, I don’t know, I’m suppressing it or I was brainwashed or _something_?”

Natasha shrugs. “If you did, then we’ll find out for sure. And if you didn’t, then we’ll find who did.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Darcy frowns, searching her face. “You’re taking a big risk for someone you don’t even _know_.”

“Someone once took a chance on me and it changed my life for the better. Consider this my act of ‘pay it forward.’” She unzips her black jacket then and shrugs it off, handing it over to Darcy. “Put it on, it’ll cover most of the blood. We need to get somewhere and lay low.”

Darcy’s hands shake, but she takes the sweater and pulls it on. It’s a little snug across the chest, but it zips. She pulls the hood up and over her head and tucks her hands into the pockets.

Natasha steps out into the light of the street lamp and starts down the sidewalk, looking casual and completely unperturbed. Darcy is not so blasé, and she feels like people are staring, but she hurries her steps, keeps her head down, and catches up to Natasha.

“You really think we can figure this out on our own?” she wonders, keeping her voice down as her eyes dart around at the people they pass on the sidewalk.

Natasha gives a quick, short nod. “I do. But it won’t be easy.”

“It doesn’t need to be easy.” She sets her mouth in a firm line then. “Whoever killed Jane isn’t going to get away with it.” Her hands ball into fists in the pocket of the jacket, curled so tight her fingers hurt under the strain. “I won’t let them.”

Natasha passes her what could resemble a smile. “ _Good_. Hold onto that fire. We’re going to need it.”

Darcy takes a deep breath, and nods.

She’ll stoke the fire inside her until the very end.

Darcy promised she’d get Jane justice, and she never breaks a promise.

[ **end** ]


End file.
